


You've Got A Friend

by LyricalSinger



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Caring Sherlock Holmes, Epic Bromance, Gen, Hurt John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-29
Updated: 2017-06-29
Packaged: 2018-11-20 17:36:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 20,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11340162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LyricalSinger/pseuds/LyricalSinger
Summary: When John gets injured at the end of a case, Sherlock announces that he will be the one to aid John during his recovery because he is the best person to take on the job … obviously. While John has no qualms about putting his fate in the hands of his flatmate, it seems everyone else does.





	1. Chapter 1

Beta'ed by the best beta ever – sarajm. Thanks also to Donna for some tweaking.  
A/N: One warning – a hurt John is a sweary John! Also, I am not a doctor (nor do I play one on TV), so while all the medical information was gleaned from the websites of the NHS, the Mayo Clinic and Health Canada I offer no guarantee as to accuracy. This is fanfiction, so let's just pretend it can all happen as written!  


________________________________________

There was an ominous creaking sound and John looked up towards the top of the building. He just caught a glimpse of the tail of Sherlock's coat before taller man hopped off the fire escape and ran after the suspect they'd been chasing for the last ten minutes.

The building was an old, abandoned warehouse located on the bank of the Thames and the ladder that ran up the side of the building looked to be a relic from the 50s. It was rusty and filthy, and apparently John's attempt to clamber up was turning out to be too much for the old thing to handle. To his horror, John suddenly noticed that several of the bolts attaching the ladder to the building were long gone, and the groaning of metal meant that several more were giving way.

John looked up towards the roof. Could he make it? No, impossible. His only option was to get down to the ground as quickly as possible. John carefully eased his way down the ladder with all the speed he could muster. The groaning and creaking noises were becoming louder with each move he made. He risked a glance down and saw that he was still about 3 metres above the ground.

With the unwelcome sound of tortured metal having reached its breaking point, the former soldier suddenly felt himself falling, but it was almost as if everything was happening in slow motion. He could see the ground rising up to meet him; he watched as the rusty ladder pulled away from the building and began its slow descent to the ground. He even had time to say aloud, "This is not good," just before everything returned to normal speed.

He hit the ground awkwardly, trying to twist out of the way of the heavy metal heading towards him while at the same time trying to avoid smashing his head on the cracked and broken asphalt.

He was semi-successful. While the doctor did manage to avoid landing directly on his head, it still hit the ground with quite a bit of force. He wasn't able to get completely out of the way of the falling ladder either, and he soon found himself pinned underneath a hundredweight of metal with the world spinning around him.

John lay there, trapped and groaning in pain, when he heard the sound of shoes pounding on the ground.

"John! Oh, my God!" Lestrade had turned the corner of the building just in time to see John hit the ground and the ladder pin him. He screamed into his walkie talkie, "An ambulance. NOW! Watson's down," as he put on speed and raced to John's side.

"Please be alive, please be alive," he chanted as he threw himself to his knees by John's head, only to hear the ex-Army doctor swearing a blue streak.

"Shit, fuck, buggering bloody fucking hell! Goddamn it, harum zadeh, kos naneh, _shit_ ".

"Well, at least I know you're still alive," said Greg as he slipped off his jacket and slid it under John's head.

A pair of pain-filled blue eyes stared up at him. "Greg. Thank God. I'm okay; well, sort of okay."

Lestrade choked out a laugh and said, "Only you, John, would call this 'okay'! An ambulance is on its way. What do you need me to do? And where's Sherlock?"

"What I really need is the mother-fucking ladder off me!" John choked out and then leaned his head back to draw in ragged breaths. He squinted up at Greg, trying to focus so there was only a single Lestrade, but he soon gave up and squeezed his eyes shut. "I'm pretty sure I've broken my left arm, my right leg is absolutely killing me and breathing is incredibly painful at the moment," he whispered.

The air was then split by a cry of " _John_ " coming from the rooftop. Sherlock had caught the suspect by tackling him from behind and the unconscious man was now lying on the roof, his hands and feet tightly secured with zip ties. When the consulting detective realized that his partner was nowhere to be found, he made his way across the rooftop back to the ladder. "He can't have gotten lost," the curly-haired man muttered. "He was right behind me."

Looking over the side of the building, all Sherlock could see was a pile of crumpled metal with Lestrade kneeling beside it. _Oh, no_ , thought Sherlock. _John … John … where's John?_ "John!"

On hearing the anguished cry, Lestrade looked up. "He's here, Sherlock. Get down here. I need your help."

"Two minutes. I'll be two minutes!" called the detective as he ran back across the roof and, ignoring the unconscious man lying on the ground, pulled open the roof access door and sprinted down the six flights of stairs to the ground floor. Fortunately, not only was the warehouse abandoned, it was also empty, so finding the exit door was no trouble at all. It let the now-frantic man out the back of the building and he took off at a run around the corner towards his injured friend.

By the time Sherlock made it to where Lestrade was still kneeling beside John, talking to the man, the rest of the NSY team had arrived. Sherlock skidded to a halt and threw himself down on the ground beside his friend. "John," he whispered.

"I'm fine Sherlock. But you're going to have to give Greg a hand to get this off me." John was panting with the exertion of talking and his face was screwed up in pain.

"Shouldn't we wait until …" began Sherlock.

"I'm a doctor; I know what I'm doing," cut in John. He drew in some quick, shallow breaths and begged, "Please just get this off me."

There was a flurry of movement as both Greg and Sherlock stood and grasped the metal. Seeing it was too heavy for them to lift, PC Whitehorse and PC Simons stepped forward to help. Donovan sat down by John's head, placed one hand on his shoulder and with the other took his right hand in hers. "Squeeze if you need to John, because this is definitely going to hurt."

"Thanks Sally," said John with an attempt at a smile. Over the noise of the four men discussing how to best move the ladder without causing further harm to the small man trapped beneath, the sound of the approaching ambulance could be heard.

"All right, on the count of three," said Lestrade as each of the four men grasped a portion of the railing. "One…two…three," and with groans of exertion, they slowly raised the heavy metal off of the doctor lying on the ground with his eyes closed tight against the pain and tossed it to the side.

Sherlock quickly knelt down beside John and elbowed Donovan out of the way. "The culprit's up on the roof. You'd better go get him," snapped Sherlock before he turned his attention back to his friend. A quick nod from Lestrade caused Donovan to send PC Simons to lead the paramedics to their location and she headed up to the roof with Whitehorse.  
"John," said Sherlock, ignoring all that was going on around him, "are you all right? What happened?"

"I guess three up the ladder was one too many," said John in a quiet voice. He grimaced as he tried to take in a deep breath and then moaned "Oh, Lord, this hurts." His voice was getting softer and his breathing was becoming shallower. "Must have cracked a couple of ribs."

Sherlock stared up at Lestrade who was looking down on the two friends in sorrow. "Don't worry, John. The ambulance is almost here. You're going to be fine."

John smiled shakily up at his friends and said, "Don't panic … but I'm going to pass out now." His eyes closed and his limbs went loose as he lost consciousness.

A flurry of movement heralded the arrival of the paramedics, who quickly stepped in and took charge. In a short time John was transferred to a back board and then lifted onto the stretcher. The blond was still unconscious but he did moan quietly when he was lifted off the ground and placed on the bed.

"Careful," snarled the worried Consulting Detective.

"Let them do their job, Sherlock," said Lestrade as he stood at the other man's side and watched as the paramedics prepared John for transfer to the ambulance. They inserted an IV, placed a collar placed around his neck and stabilized his left arm. A few quick questions about blood type and allergies that Sherlock was able to answer and then ex-Army doctor was placed in the ambulance.

"Which hospital?" called Lestrade to the man who hopped in the back with John.

"University College," came the reply just as the double doors to the ambulance were shut, blocking the view of John lying still on the stretcher.

"We'll meet you there," said Lestrade to the other paramedic who nodded, jumped behind the wheel and took off with sirens blaring and lights flashing. "C'mon Sherlock. I'll drive you. Just give me two seconds to make sure everything's in hand and we'll be on our way."

Sherlock just nodded at the D.I. and started walking away towards the front of the warehouse and the street where the police cars had been abandoned. Greg quickly contacted Donovan, who confirmed that the suspect was in hand, and told her the situation. He then ran after Sherlock and by the time he'd made it to his car, Sherlock was standing impatiently at the passenger door.

A snick and the car locks opened; the two men slid in and Greg sped off towards the hospital, lights flashing. Speeding along the road in the wake of the ambulance, Greg kept shooting looks at the man sitting beside him. Sherlock hadn't said a word since John had been placed in the ambulance.

"You know he's going to be fine, right?" said Greg in a worried tone.

"I know," snapped Sherlock as he continued to stare blankly out the window.

"And you know his accident wasn't your fault?"

"I _know_ Gavin. Please … stop talking and drive!"

Pulling up to the hospital's A&E, Sherlock was out of the car before Greg had even stopped. The policeman watched his friend fly through the doors of the building, and knowing how Sherlock acted on a good day realized he'd better park the car and get in the damned building as soon as possible or he'd either have to arrest Sherlock or have him sedated.  
Greg pulled his car into a "no parking" spot right near the door, left his police lights sitting on the dashboard and got out thinking, "At least there are some advantages to being a cop."

Hurrying in the doors, Greg could see Sherlock standing at the reception desk speaking with a young nurse. "Oh, Lord," said Greg, terrified that Sherlock was haranguing her. But, as he quickly made his way towards to the two, he was surprised to find that the woman was speaking calmly to Sherlock and the curly-haired detective was actually listening.

"So?" he asked as he stopped beside Sherlock. "What's the situation?"

The nurse looked at the detective and then back at Sherlock. "It's fine. He's with Scotland Yard and he's a friend."

"Oh, well then, Doctor Watson is being examined at the moment. I was just telling Mr. Holmes that the Doctor was conscious when he arrived, though in a great deal of pain. As soon as I hear anything I will come and find you. In the meantime, there is small family room where you can wait for news. There's no one else in there, so you'll have some quiet. Follow me, please."

The nurse led the two men down the hallway and stopped in front of a glass door. "You can wait here and I promise I'll bring you news as soon as I hear anything. There's a coffee machine in the corner and a kettle in there as well."

Greg pulled the door open and ushered Sherlock into the room. It was a small room with six seats and one large, and very dusty, plastic ficus in one corner. Greg made his way to the coffee machine while Sherlock sat down.

"So, Sherlock," said the detective as he took a seat across from the other man, "mind telling me what was going on out there?"

Sherlock gave Lestrade a blank stare. "What are you talking about?"

"Well, you were calm and polite. I was afraid you'd be eviscerating everyone you came across, desperate to get news on John."

"Well, if you must know," said Sherlock as he leaned back and rested his head against the wall, "I'm John's emergency contact, so I am entitled to any and all information on his condition."

"Oh," said Greg. "Well … um … that's good, I guess. When did this happen?"

"Remember when John was admitted with pneumonia about a year ago? His sister was still listed as his emergency contact, but we all know what their relationship is like. John quickly saw reason and changed his NHS information."

"Hmmm," said Greg with a smile, " _quickly saw reason, or took pity on any and all persons who'd have to deal with you_ and changed his contact accordingly?"

The only answer he got was a blistering glare.

The two men sat in the small room for several hours, waiting to find out when they could see John. The nurse who had escorted them to the waiting room was as good as her word and kept them informed as to the situation. Finally, she came back and said, "Doctor Watson has been placed in a private room. We'll be keeping him overnight for observation, but he is allowed visitors. In fact, he's been asking after you."

Greg and Sherlock followed the young woman out the room and down a hallway. Stopping in front of the lifts she said, "He's in room 412."

"Thank you," said Greg as a ping announced the arrival of the car. Sherlock simply ignored what was going on around him and as soon as the doors of the lift opened, he stepped in and furiously punched the 4. "Get in Lestrade, or I'll leave you behind."

"All right, all right. I was just trying to be polite."

The doors opened on the 4th floor and without looking at any of the signs, Sherlock seemed to know exactly where to find John. Down the hall, a turn to the left and at the fifth door, they halted. The door was ajar and they could hear John's voice; it was quiet and a little weak, but it was definitely John's voice, and something that had been clenched tight inside Sherlock loosened and he seemed finally able to breathe.

"John," said Sherlock as he stepped into the room, closely followed by Lestrade. While Lestrade made his way to John's bedside, Sherlock picked up the chart hanging off the end of the bed and began reading.

"Mate, you've looked better, I've got to say," said Lestrade as he gently clasped the injured man's right shoulder.

"Thanks, Greg," said John sarcastically. "Doctor Samja, this is Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade and that tall drink of water hovering at the end of the bed is my best friend Sherlock Holmes."

"A pleasure," said Doctor Samja as he shook Lestrade's hand. Sherlock, for his part, ignored the doctor and kept reading John's medical chart. John's quiet "Sherlock" caught his attention and he looked up.

"Yes, pleasure. So, how long does John have to remain here?" asked Sherlock.

Doctor Samja turned to his patient and said with a laugh, "I see you weren't exaggerating. Doctor Watson … John … you should try to relax and get some sleep. I'll explain your injuries to your friends."

John lay back against the pillows and listened as Doctor Samja explained to Lestrade and Sherlock the extent of his injuries. "As is obvious from the cast, John has broken his left arm and his left shoulder was dislocated. The scar tissue from his bullet wound made the re-alignment of his shoulder extremely difficult, not to mention painful, so John's shoulder will have to be immobilized until the swelling has gone down. He has also fractured his right ankle, wrenched his right knee and suffered some ligament damage there as well. He has two cracked ribs, a minor concussion and is basically one large, human-shaped bruise."

"Other than the cast, we have stabilized both his ankle and his knee, have wrapped his ribs and are keeping close watch on the concussion. Doctor Watson will be our guest overnight, and after tomorrow's evaluation I will decide whether we can release him or have him stay for another 24 hours."

Turning back to John, who by this point was almost asleep, Doctor Samja said, "Try not to be a hero, John, and use the PCA pump. I'll see you in the morning. Have a good afternoon, gentlemen," he said as he left the room and closed the door behind him.

"So, John, that's quite a bit of damage," said Lestrade as he pulled up a chair and sat down in John's line of sight so the other man wouldn't have to move too much to see him.  
"Don't be tedious," said Sherlock as he hovered at the end of the bed.

Looking up at his friend, John smiled, patted the mattress and said, "Sherlock, sit down. You're making me nervous."

Sherlock huffed, but perched himself on the edge of the bed, and studied his friend while John and Lestrade chatted for a few moments. While they were talking, John was finding it harder and harder to keep his eyes open until finally Greg said, "All right, John. I'm off; I'll see you tomorrow, yeah?"

"All right Greg. And thank you for everything."

"You're very welcome John. Try to get some rest if you can. Sherlock, you coming?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at John, who smiled back and said gently, "Go, get some rest. I'll see you in the morning. Oh, would you bring me some clothes when you come – they had to cut off my clothing so unless I want to go home in this backless gown …"

Sherlock grinned at his friend and said, "While I'm sure the nurses would appreciate the sight, Doctor Watson, I'll be sure to bring along your pyjamas when I return. I'll let Mrs. Hudson know what's happened, and as a gift to you, I'll make sure she stays home tomorrow."

Sherlock got up from his seat on the bed, straightened his coat and walked towards the door. Looking back at his friend, who looked so small and broken lying there in the hospital bed, he quietly said, "Good night, John," and stepped into the hallway.

Greg was standing about ten feet away, checking his phone when Sherlock was suddenly at his side. "A drive home would be greatly appreciated, Lestrade," he said as he continued on towards the lifts.

It was a quiet drive to 221B. Coming to a stop in front of the building, Greg turned to Sherlock and said, "Are you all right?"

"Why wouldn't I be?" asked Sherlock. "I wasn't the one who fell off a building and ended up buried under a fire escape."

"I know," responded Lestrade, "It's just that … you know what? Never mind. I guess I'll see you tomorrow; I still need to get your statement to wrap up the case."

"After I visit John," said Sherlock as he opened the car door and slid out to stand on the pavement. Just as he was about the close the car door, Sherlock leaned in and said, "Thank you, Greg."

Before Greg could respond, Sherlock had closed the car door and was already disappearing through the entryway to 221B.  
"Any time, Sherlock. Any time."


	2. Chapter 2

It was 10:00 a.m. by the time Sherlock and Lestrade arrived at the hospital to check on John’s progress. Lestrade had texted the consulting detective the previous evening with the suggestion that Sherlock present himself at NSY first thing in the morning. Lestrade would take his statement and then the two of them could go visit John. The policeman’s thinking was that, based on the injuries the doctor had sustained, if he was to be released that day he’d probably need all the help he could get to make it home in one piece. 

It wasn’t that Lestrade didn’t have any faith in Sherlock’s abilities. Rather, it was the younger man’s attention span (or lack thereof) that worried Greg. It certainly wouldn’t have surprised him to discover that once Sherlock had returned to 221B he forgot all about his injured partner and instead became engrossed in another of his frankly disgusting experiments. Amazingly, that was not the case: Sherlock showed up at his offices bright and early carrying a small bag that contained some fresh clothing for their injured friend.

Once again, Lestrade parked illegally near the entrance to the A&E and the two men marched in the doors, Sherlock with the bag slung over one shoulder. Rather than stop with Greg at the nurse’s desk to find out if John had been moved and if it was all right for him to have visitors, Sherlock instead made his way directly to the lifts. Once the doors to the lift opened, Sherlock stepped inside, punched 4 and waited impatiently for the doors to close once again. He ignored Greg, who by this time was hurrying along the corridor calling for him to wait.

A bing heralded the carriage’s arrival on the fourth floor, and as soon as the doors were open Sherlock was out of the lift and down the hall, intent on making it to John’s room as quickly as possible. A short rap on the door and Sherlock stepped into the room, only to find it was empty. Where was John?

A pair of green-grey-blue eyes scanned the room, taking in all the data they could. “Ah,” said Sherlock aloud, as he placed the bag he was carrying on the floor by the window. Just then, Lestrade appeared in the doorway and say, “You know, you could have waited. I was trying to tell you that John…”

“has been taken down to x-ray, presumably for another scan of his ankle,” concluded Sherlock.

“How in the _hell_ did you figure that out?” asked Lestrade in amazement.

“It was rather simple, Gustav. First off, John will be returning to this room because his belongings are still on the bedside table, and his chart is still affixed to the end of the bed. Doctor Samja mentioned yesterday that they had ‘stabilized’ John’s ankle, but it was obvious that it had not yet been placed in a cast. They would have had to wait for some of the swelling to abate before placing a cast on the afflicted limb, and an x-ray would allow them to determine whether a cast would actually be necessary. And … John left me a note on the table.”

At Sherlock’s final pronouncement, Lestrade burst into laughter. “Yeah, that sounds like something John would do … wouldn’t want anyone to worry! I checked at the floor desk and John should be back in about fifteen minutes. I’m going to get some coffee … real coffee, not that hospital crap. You want?”

“Milk, no sugar,” responded Sherlock as he sat down in one of the chairs, crossed his legs and settled his coat around him.

“Since when do you take no sugar?” asked Lestrade. Sherlock was infamous around the Yard for how sweet he took his coffee.

“Not for me, for John. I’m sure he’s desperate for caffeine by know.”

Lestrade smiled at the consulting detective, said, “All right; back in a mo’,” and disappeared out of the room.

As Sherlock settled himself in for a bit of a wait, he glanced around the room. It wasn’t too bad a room, as hospital rooms go. At least it wasn’t painted that institutional beige that purported to be soothing but rather seemed, at least to Sherlock, vomit-inducing. He reached over and slipped John’s chart from the holder affixed to the end of the bed and began reading. He had only given it a cursory once-over the previous afternoon and if John was going to be released that day, Sherlock needed to know exactly what sort of care his friend would require on his return to the flat.

Sherlock had already cleared away some of the clutter in the sitting room the previous night and had even gone so far as to change the sheets on his bed and arrange John’s pillows there as well. The plan was to install John in Sherlock’s room on his return home. There was no way Sherlock was going to allow the injured man to make the trip up to his room on the top floor with a cast on his leg. Besides, the bathroom on the main floor was equipped with both shower and tub, while the small powder room adjacent to John’s room held only a toilet and sink.

Sherlock had only been waiting about ten minutes when he heard the sound of voices nearing. One of them was John’s. Listening intently, Sherlock could tell from the sound of John’s voice that the man was still in quite a bit of pain, and he obviously had not slept well. But, he did sound rather cheerful, so the results of the x-ray must have been better than expected.

“Sherlock!” said John cheerfully as he was wheeled into the room. He was lying on a small, narrow transport bed with the head raised. He was covered to the waist with a depressingly-green blanket and the blue hospital gown did nothing to hide the bloom of bruising that was beginning to appear on the man’s arms and torso. “It’s good to see you.”

“And you, John,” responded Sherlock as he watched the nurse and the orderly transfer John to the regular bed. “How are you feeling?”

John grinned at his friend and said, “Well, despite not getting any sleep and feeling like I’ve been run over by a lorry, not bad. The x-ray they just took showed that my ankle is fractured, but not as badly as first believed. I won’t need a cast; instead I’ll be fitted for a boot. Now, I’m just waiting for Doctor Samja to stop by and let me know when I can get out of here.”

John was just finishing up when Lestrade appeared in the doorway, carrying a cardboard tray holding three steaming cups. “John, looking good mate!” he said as he placed the tray down on the table and grasped John’s right hand. “Well, okay, maybe not ‘good’ but a lot better than what you looked like yesterday,” he continued as he wriggled one of the cups out of the tray and handed it John. “Milk, no sugar,” he said with a grin as he handed another cup to Sherlock.

“Ta mate, you’re a lifesaver,” said John fervently has he took a sip. “Heaven,” he moaned as he breathed in the aroma of the dark roast.

Sherlock, meanwhile, was holding his cup in his hand and said to Lestrade, “I didn’t ask for coffee.”

“I know; that’s why I got you a hot chocolate,” responded the D.I. as he took a sip of his own coffee.

Sherlock looked rather disgruntled at Lestrade’s presumption, but once he took a sip, he had to give the other man credit. This was a real hot chocolate, made with full-fat milk; not one of those watery, came-from-a-packet jobs.

The three men chatted while waiting for Doctor Samja to make his appearance. Rather Lestrade and John chatted; Sherlock merely roamed the room checking the various drawers to see if there was anything worth liberating. 

Lestrade was just finishing up telling John about what happened at the scene after he was taken away by ambulance when a knock sounded on the door and Doctor Samja stepped into the room. He was carrying John’s x-rays and a clipboard that held papers and forms at least an inch thick.

“Good morning, John,” said Doctor Samja as he set everything down on the table beside the bed and proceeded to slip the x-rays onto the lightbox affixed to the wall. Turning back to John, he gave him a raised eyebrow as if to say, “Do you wish these gentlemen to stay while we discuss your prognosis?”

John smiled at Doctor Samja and said, “I don’t remember if I mentioned it yesterday, but this is Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade of New Scotland Yard, and that lanky creature over there pawing through the drawers is my friend, Sherlock Holmes. They are more than welcome to stay. In fact, I’m pretty sure that Sherlock would refuse to leave in any case.”

Doctor Samja nodded to the two men. “Gentlemen,” he said. “Now, John, let’s take a look at what’s going on.” Pointing to the x-ray he continued, “As you can see, there is definitely a fracture of the tibia, but it is not as bad as we first thought. On reviewing the x-rays, I can confirm that a cast will not be necessary; instead, we will fit you with a boot. BUT, that doesn’t mean you can go walking around as you please – not that your knee injury will allow that at the moment. Still, it is good news. As for your knee, you’ve got a torn ACL and you’ll have to wear an ACL brace for the length of your recovery. We’ll also equip you with a forearm crutch for stability. 

Now, regarding your shoulder and arm. I am giving give you a prescription for codeine to help control the pain from the shoulder realignment and I expect you to take it. At least the break is a clean one and you shouldn’t have any issues as it repairs itself.

Finally, this morning’s x-rays show you’ve cracked three ribs, not two as previously thought. As you know, there is not much we can do for them other than strapping them to provide some support.”

While Doctor Samja was setting out the list of John’s injuries, both Lestrade and Sherlock were paying close attention to what was being said – Lestrade because he couldn’t believe his friend had suffered so much, yet still seemed quite cheerful and Sherlock because he needed to assimilate all the data in order that he be able to provide John with the proper aftercare.

Being a doctor himself, nothing that Doctor Samja told him came as a great surprise. John was just amazed he had come through the accident as well as he did.

When Doctor Samja finished speaking, John said, “So … does this mean I’m free to go home?”

Doctor Samja looked at John and laughed, “Anxious to get of here, are you? Actually, John, once orthopedics stops by and fits you for the boot and knee brace, you can be discharged. You’ve had no medical issues as a result of the minor concussion, so there really is no need to keep you. However, I can’t release you unless you have someone who can stay with you for the next few days.”

Lestrade opened his mouth to offer John his spare room when Sherlock spoke up, “Of course he’ll be coming home. I’m his flat mate and I’ll ensure that John follows your every instruction, Doctor.”

“That’s good. Just a couple of other things, then. John, I expect you to take the painkillers as prescribed. I’m only giving you a ten-day prescription at any rate. I want to see you back here at the end of the period for another evaluation. No walking on that foot or knee; in fact, you should keep them elevated as much as possible to help reduce the residual swelling. Breathing is going to be painful, but remember that you must try to take deep breaths as often as possible or you run the risk of a chest infection.”

“I think that’s it. If you have any questions, call me. If something doesn’t feel right, call me. If your pain becomes unmanageable, call me. You’ve got my number. I’ve got to continue on my rounds, but I’ll make sure the required paperwork is waiting for you at the desk. Otherwise, unless you need something, I’ll see you in ten days. The nurse will let you know the date and time for your follow up.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” said John as he put out his right hand. 

Shaking his colleague’s hand, Doctor Samja said, “It was my pleasure, John.” Turning to Sherlock, he said, “Make sure he doesn’t overdo it; I’ve heard stories about him!”

With a final nod to Lestrade, Doctor Samja left the room.

“Wow … well, that’s quite the list of injuries, John,” said Lestrade as he stepped closer to the bed. “Are you sure you’ll be okay at home? At least my place has a lift.”

“Don’t be tedious, Lestrade,” drawled Sherlock as he reached to pick up the bag he had brought with him. “Of course John will be fine at home. Once we’ve got him up the stairs, there’s no reason for him to have to do any additional stair-climbing.” Placing the bag gently on the bed beside John’s knee, Sherlock said, “I brought you some pyjamas and a jumper. I made sure the bottoms were wide enough to fit over a cast, so the boot and the brace shouldn’t cause any problems.”

Pulling the bag towards him, John peered into it and said, “Real clothes! Excellent! I’ve had enough of this ridiculous gown.”

“Shall I leave you to get dressed?” asked Sherlock.

“Yeah, I should be able to manage it on my own.”

“Look, John,” said Lestrade, “I’ve got to get back to the office, but give me a call when you’re ready to head home. I’ll come and pick you up, and between the three of us I’m sure we can get you up the stairs and into the flat easily enough.”

“You don’t have to come back, Greg,” said John, “I’m sure we can figure something out.”

“John, just call me,” said Greg sternly. “I’m happy to help in any way I can.”

“Okay, thanks. I’ll see you later, then,” said John.

“Definitely,” responded Greg. “Sherlock, walk me to the lift,” he added as he left the room.

Sherlock gave John a quick look and John nodded and said, “I’m just going to get dressed. If I run into trouble, I’ll wait for you to get back.”

Sherlock followed Greg to the lifts and as they were waiting, Greg said, “Sherlock, are you sure you’re ready for this? John is seriously injured, and he’ll be depending on you for support. You can’t just walk away, or forget about him. My offer to have him stay with me still stands.”

“Lestrade,” said Sherlock in an insulted tone, “I am perfectly capable of caring for John for the next little while. Besides, he’s a grown man and is not afraid to state out loud for all the world to hear if he needs something.”

“All right,” said Greg as the lift doors opened. He stepped inside and pressed the button for the ground floor, “But just remember my offer.”

“Good- _bye_ , Lestrade!”

Sherlock slowly made his way back down the hallway to John’s room, giving the other man time to dress himself, but as he neared the doorway, he heard John’s low moan of pain. Sherlock stepped in to the room to see that John had somehow managed to get his pants and pyjama bottoms on, but he was stymied by the t-shirt. Between the pain in his ribs and the strapping around his shoulder, he was unable to get the shirt over his head. Sherlock stared at his bruised and battered friend. John’s shoulder was strapped, his arm was in a cast that covered him from mid-upper-arm to fingertips, his ribs were wrapped and what could be seen of his torso was covered in dark blue-purple bruises. “Ohhh,” he whispered.

Hearing the quiet exhalation, John sent his friend a grimace that held a hint of a smile and said, “Do you think you could…”

“Of course, John,” overrode Sherlock as he took the t-shirt from John’s grasp and bunched it up to slip it over his head. “Can you put your arm through the sleeve with the cast or should we just leave it?”

“Leave it for now,” said John as he tried not to cry out. Sherlock was being extremely gentle, but at that moment, any movement was destined to cause discomfort. Despite Sherlock’s care, by the time he was dressed John was panting due to both the pain and the exertion.

“Can I get you anything?” ask Sherlock as he worried his lower lip. He wasn’t used to seeing John like this; usually the ex-Army doctor was the one doling out sympathy and assistance.

“No, Sherlock, I’m fine for the moment.” Then, gesturing to his clothed body, he added, “Thanks for bringing me some clothes; I feel like a human being again now that I’m properly dressed.”

Sherlock grinned at his friend and said, “It’s like I told you yesterday. While I’m sure the nurses would have no problem with you prancing around in a backless gown, the rest of us really don’t need that visual!”

“Oi!” said John with a laugh that quickly turned into a groan as he pulled his right arm across his chest. “Ouch … don’t make me laugh.”

* * * * * * * *

It was a long three hours until John was finally released from hospital. By the time orthopedics had measured, fitted and then tested the boot and fitted John for a knee brace, his patience had been tested as well. Sherlock’s patience was long gone; he had taken to wandering around the floors deducing people, to the embarrassment and anger of most he came across.

Finally, though, the paperwork was done, John’s prescriptions had been filled and were now safely stored in his bag, and Sherlock was holding several pieces of paper outlining the “dos and don’ts” that John was supposed to follow for the next ten days. John was seated in a wheelchair with his bag and the forearm crutch carefully positioned so as not to fall and Sherlock had texted Lestrade to come and get them.

Sherlock wheeled John out of the building into the warm afternoon sunshine and over to a small sitting area where they could wait for Lestrade to arrive. John took a deep breath of clean air, even though the action caused him to grimace in pain.

Looking over at his friend, who was watching him intently, John cleared his throat and said, “Sherlock, I’m really sorry about all this.”

“What do you mean?” asked the curly-haired detective.

“Well, my accident. I know it’s going to cause you all sorts of inconvenience. I’m going to be pretty useless for the next little while.”

“John, stop talking. First off, the accident was not your fault. If anyone is to blame, it would be me. I’m the one who dragged you along on this case in the first place. Secondly, you are not, nor will you ever be, an inconvenience. I am willing to provide you with whatever assistance you may require over the next weeks. And even if you cannot come on cases with me, you can still contribute to our partnership by performing whatever on-line research that may be required. After all, you can’t be any slower typing with only one hand than you are with two!”

“Hey!” said John with a chuckle. “All right, well … thanks, Sherlock. For everything. I really appreciate it.”

“Well, that’s what friends do, isn’t it?” asked Sherlock tentatively. “Look out for each other?”

“Yeah,” said John fondly, “that’s exactly what we do.”

Not five minutes later, Lestrade pulled up, turned off the motor and jumped out. “John,” he said, “I bet you’re glad to have been sprung. All right, I’ve pushed the front seat back as far is it can go so you should be able to get in without too much difficulty. Sherlock, you’ll have to sit in the back. You get John settled and I’ll put all this stuff in the boot.” As Lestrade took John’s bag and crutch, Sherlock wheeled John over to the car and opened the front passenger door.

“So, how do you want to do this?” asked Sherlock as he looked from the car seat to his injured friend.

“I think if you remove this arm rest and then wheel the chair right over beside the car, I should be able to manoeuver over with a little bit of assistance.”

It took a few moments, but finally John was seated in the front seat of the car, tears in the corners of his eyes from the pain of moving, and Sherlock was leaned over attaching the seat belt loosely over John’s chest.

Lestrade slide in behind the wheel, took one look at John’s pale and sweaty face and asked, “All right?”

“Couldn’t be better,” said John. “Let’s just go home.”

Once Sherlock was in and safely buckled, Lestrade started the car and slowly headed out of the parking lot and towards Baker Street. Being mid-afternoon, the traffic was light and Lestrade was able, for the most part, to avoid any potholes or sudden stops. However, by the time he pulled up in front of 221B, John was breathing shallowly and continuously swallowing. 

“John?” asked Lestrade.

“For God’s sake, John, don’t be sick,” said Sherlock as he slide out of the car and opened the front passenger door. “Lean back, relax and just breathe. You’re fine.”

John did as he was told, and after about a minute his colour returned to normal and his breathing evened out. “Definitely time for another painkiller,” he said.

“Of course, but first we’ve got to get you out of the car and up to the flat. Just give me a minute,” said Sherlock. He had stepped up to the front door and was searching for his keys when the door flew open and Mrs. Hudson appeared in front of him. 

“I was watching for you,” she said, as she looked over Sherlock’s shoulder towards the car and John. “Oh, dear,” she added, with tears in her eyes as she saw how battered John looked.

“Now, now, Mrs. Hudson. This is no time for tears. John will be fine; he is fine. But if you wouldn’t mind making sure the door to the flat is open, Lestrade and I will get John up the stairs in no time.”

Mrs. Hudson patted Sherlock’s cheek and said, “You’re a good man, Sherlock. The door is already open, and the kettle is on the boil. Once you’re settled, I’ll make some tea.”

Sherlock nodded at his landlady and then returned to the car where Lestrade was crouched down, speaking with John. “No complaints, John. Let us do this.”

“All right, Greg. You’re right; I don’t think I’ll be able to handle the stairs right now.”

Seeing Sherlock’s shadow fall over him, Lestrade straightened up and said, “We’ll have to carry John.”

“My thoughts precisely,” responded Sherlock as he signalled for Mrs. Hudson. “Mrs. Hudson, would you mind assisting us for a couple of moments.”

With Mrs. Hudson helping to support John, the two men linked their arms to make a sort of chair for John to sit on. John wrapped his right arm around Lestrade’s neck and gave a quick nod. “I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.” Lestrade and Sherlock straightened up and smoothly made their way through the front door and up the seventeen steps to the flat. Once there, they carefully transferred John to the sofa, where he leaned back with a heartfelt sigh of relief.

Lestrade hurried back down to his car to retrieve John’s bag and crutch and by the time he’d returned to the flat, Mrs. Hudson was already handing out cups of tea to everyone.

“Ta, Mrs. H.,” said John as she placed a half-filled mug in his right hand. Taking a sip, he smiled at his landlady over the rim of the mug and said, “This is the best medicine, ever.”

“Oh,” said Sherlock as he grabbed the bag Lestrade had placed by the door. He rummaged through to find John’s medications and, after reading the instructions, popped off the lid and handed one of the tablets to John. “Here, take this.”

John swallowed the pill with a tea chaser and looking at his friends, who were all looking at him with various stages of worry on their faces, said, “Thank you all. But don’t look so worried. I’ll be fine. I’ve been through worse, so some bruises and a broken arm are not going to keep me down.”

“Of course not, John,” said Greg as he drained the last of his tea. “I’ve got to get back to the office. Don’t hesitate to call me if you need anything … anything at all.” The older man placed his mug on the tray sitting on the coffee table and walking over to John, clasped the smaller man’s right shoulder and said, “I’m glad you’re all right, John. I’m not embarrassed to say that you gave me a bit of a fright.”

“I’m sorry, Greg,” said John, “but once again, thank you for everything. I’ll talk to you later, yeah?”

“Of course,” said Greg as he headed towards the door. “And like I said, call me if you need anything.” Just as Greg was through the door, Mrs. Hudson said, “I’ll be heading back down now too. Detective, let me accompany you to the door.”

It was quiet in the flat once Greg and Mrs. Hudson had said their goodbyes, and Sherlock took the opportunity to grab the afghan that was hanging off the back of John’s chair and spread it over John’s legs. “Why don’t you try to get some rest,” said Sherlock as he positioned a pillow under John’s right foot. 

John hadn’t realized, but he’d been yawning for the last few minutes. Taking his cue from Sherlock, he said, “I think I will,” and leaning back, he rested his head against the armrest of the sofa. He was soon asleep.

Meanwhile, unbeknownst to Sherlock, Greg and Mrs. Hudson were having a serious discussion at the bottom of the stairs.

“I mean it, Mrs. Hudson,” said Greg. “I know Sherlock keeps saying that he’s perfectly capable of caring for John, but I want you to call me if you think he’s getting overwhelmed or there’s a problem. John’s a good friend and I think he deserves an easy recovery, don’t you?”

“Of course, Detective. I’ll keep an eye on both of them and I’ll be sure to let you know if I think you need to step in, for John’s sake.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Hudson. You’re a wonder. Well, I’m off, but I’ll stop by tomorrow afternoon to see how things are going up there.” Then, with a kiss to Mrs. Hudson’s cheek, Lestrade was out the door. Mrs. Hudson glanced up the stairwell and whispered, “Poor John,” before she disappeared into her flat.

Upstairs, all was quiet as John slumbered on the sofa and Sherlock sat in his chair, carefully reading through the various information sheets the hospital had given them on John’s departure. He was going to be sure that he gave John the best care possible. After all, it was the least he could do for his friend.


	3. Chapter 3

A groan from the sitting room announced John’s awakening. He’d been asleep for just over three hours and Sherlock had taken advantage of the lull to finish up one of his on-going experiments. He’d also cleared off a large section of the kitchen table to allow them to actually sit down and eat.

Sherlock was standing at the sink, washing out the last Erlenmeyer flask when John called from the sitting room, “What time is it? No … what _day_ is it?”

Sherlock chuckled and walked from the kitchen to the sitting room while drying his hands on a kitchen towel that may have been red at some point but was now faded to a dull rose colour. “It’s still Tuesday; it’s 5:50 and you’ve been asleep for just over three hours,” he said. “How are you feeling?”

John lay still on the sofa, staring up at the ceiling and taking stock of his body. Everything ached … his muscles, his joints, his bones. Hell, even his hair ached. “Not too bad, considering,” he responded with a grimace as he shifted on the sofa and his ribs twinged in complaint. 

Sherlock simply gave his bruised and broken friend a raised eyebrow in response.

“All right. Fine. I feel like shite. Is that what you wanted to hear?” snapped John as he once again tried, unsuccessfully, to sit up.

Sherlock slung the damp towel over the back of his chair as he stepped across the room towards his friend. “Let me,” he said, as he eased an arm under John’s back and ever so slowly raised him up to a sitting position. Grabbing one of the several pillows he had placed on the floor earlier that afternoon, he positioned it on the coffee table and then raised John’s right leg to rest on the pillow. He then took a second pillow and placed it at John’s left side to offer support for his arm and shoulder.

While he sat there, letting Sherlock arrange his limbs, John began to feel bad for having snapped at the younger man. After all, it wasn’t Sherlock’s fault that he was in such straits … it was the fault of a badly-maintained warehouse and the idiot who thought he could outrun the Consulting Detective.

Looking up at the dark-haired man who was now standing upright, John said, “I’m sorry, Sherlock. I shouldn’t have snapped at you; that was uncalled for. It’s just …”

“I understand, John,” said Sherlock. “You’re in pain, you’re frustrated and you cannot have another pill just yet. The only thing I can offer you is tea.”

“Tea would be heavenly, ta,” said John as he smiled up at Sherlock.

Without another word, Sherlock spun around, grabbed the towel from his chair and in three great strides was back in the kitchen. As John sat there, trying not to move too much or breathe too deeply, he could hear the distinctive _click_ of the kettle being turned on, the clink of mugs being taken down from the cupboard and the particular _whoosh_ of their refrigerator seal being broken as Sherlock retrieved the milk. They were the sounds of home and comforted John in a way nothing else could.

A few moments later, Sherlock reappeared carrying a tray he’d dug out from God knows where that now held two steaming mugs of tea and a small plate with a collection of biscuits. Sherlock carefully set the tray on the table, picked up one of the mugs and handed it, handle first, to John, who stretched out his right hand and gratefully accepted it.

“I didn’t fill it purposely,” said Sherlock before John could make mention of the fact that his mug was no more than three-quarters full. “You’re not yet accustomed to functioning with your non-dominant hand and I didn’t want you to worry about possibly spilling a boiling hot liquid in your lap.”

John grinned at his friend and said, “Good thinking, Sherlock. A burning in my nether regions is really not what I want to experience at this point in time.”

Sherlock chuckled as he picked up his own mug and sat at the other end of the sofa, twisted sideways so he could comfortably watch his blogger to ensure that nothing untoward happened.

“So, what should I be doing?” asked Sherlock as he sipped at his own tea. “I’ve got your doctor’s notes on when and how to take your painkillers and anti-inflammatories, as well as the prescriptions. I’m here to help, John, but … you’re going to have to tell me when you need assistance. I’m not … good … at these sorts of things.”

“Sherlock, don’t worry. You’ve been doing great so far. Unfortunately, there’s not much to do at the moment. It’s going to take time and patience, but my ribs will heal, as will my knee and foot and arm …” John’s voice trailed away.

“What’s wrong, John?” asked Sherlock in a sharp tone.

“Hm? … oh, sorry Sherlock. It’s just that listing all my injuries made it seem ‘real’ all of a sudden.”

“Like the cast on your arm and the brace on your knee didn’t feel real already?” asked Sherlock with a smirk. He could see that John wasn’t upset by his injuries, rather more in awe of them at the moment.

“Oi, you!” said John with a chuckle. “You know what I mean. Physically there’s no doubting that I’m injured and in pain, but my brain finally seemed to kick in and say ‘Wow, that’s a lot of injuries, you git’. Of course, everything still seems a bit foggy around the edges at the moment.”

“That must be the painkillers,” said Sherlock. “Appreciate the fog while you can, John,” he added wisely, “because soon enough you’re going feel every bruise and break and tear that covers your body.”

“Thanks for the pep talk,” responded John sarcastically.

“I’m here to provide assistance, not be your life coach, John,” said Sherlock, though the twinkle in his eyes showed his appreciation for John’s attempts at humour. 

They finished their tea in silence, but it wasn’t long before John’s breathing became shallower and he began shifting, albeit rather unsuccessfully, to try to relieve the pressure on his ribs and the myriad of bruises that covered his torso.

Sherlock, noticing that the doctor was becoming more and more uncomfortable, glanced at his watch, then stood and picked up the bag that he had dropped beside John’s chair when they’d arrived home. Rummaging through the pocket, he pulled out one vial and read the label. 

Sherlock filled a glass with water at the kitchen sink, returned to John’s side and replaced the now-empty mug that was still clasped in the injured man’s hand with the tumbler. Popping the cap off the pill bottle, he tipped two of the painkillers into his palm and held them out towards John. “Here, take these.”

John looked from the two white pills that were now perched beneath his nose to his only usable appendage that now clutched the glass of water.

“Oh, sorry,” said Sherlock as he took the glass of water and placed the two pills into John’s palm.

Once he had taken his meds and drained the glass of water, John said, “Sherlock, could you give me a hand to lie down. I’m exhausted and once these pills kick in, I’m going to be out like a light.”

“Of course, John. But don’t you want something to eat first?”

“No, I’m not hungry at the moment. Maybe later.”

“All right,” said Sherlock as he placed a pillow against the arm of the sofa for John’s head, tucked a second pillow under John’s left shoulder and then carefully shifted the man’s right leg so it lay on the sofa, his ankle supported by yet another pillow.

“I’ll be in the kitchen; call if you need anything,” said Sherlock, as he spread one of the many afghans that Mrs. Hudson kept knitting for them over the supine form of his friend.

“Hmmm,” murmured John, already half-asleep.


	4. Chapter 4

It was day three of John’s recovery and so far things had been going better than he’d hoped. He had, with Sherlock’s help, been able to get from the sitting room to the other man’s bedroom so had actually slept in a real bed the previous night. The only down side: Sherlock’s sheets were something like one million thread count Egyptian cotton and now John was afraid that he would never be able to go back to the plain old regular cotton that covered his own bed. 

While he did feel bad about having booted Sherlock out of his room, John couldn’t deny the logic in having him stay there: the loo was barely six steps away and he should be able to make it, albeit very slowly, on his own using his crutch. The kitchen was just down the hall, as was their homey and welcoming sitting room and, best of all, no stairs.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, his hair mussed and his eyes half-open, John proceeded to take stock of his injuries. His ribs were aching, but no worse than previously. So, despite the fact that deep breathing was still excruciating, John decided to put his ribs in his mental “doing better” column. His shoulder was still definitely in the “Good _Lord_ , this hurts worse that being shot” column, and his arm was a firm “don’t notice a difference good or bad”.

Moving on to his right leg, John tried very gently to move his knee. He managed about ten degrees of movement before he winced in pain. _Okay_ , he thought, _another thing in the_ ‘worse that being shot’ _column_. Between the pain in his knee, the pain in his shoulder and the aching of his ribs, John was reluctant to even take a look at his ankle, so he decided he was done reviewing his injuries for the day.

He was just about to try standing up when the bedroom door was flung open and a certain Consulting Detective appeared, wearing pin-striped pyjama bottoms and a t-shirt that may have once been blue but was now decidedly grey-looking. His blue silk dressing gown was hanging off his shoulders, open and swirling around his knees.

“Ah, John, good. You’re up,” said the Detective as he stopped in front of his friend and held out a hand. John stared blankly at the hand, then up at the younger man’s face. An impatient huff and emphatic wiggling of fingers let John know that the hand was there to help him stand.

“Oh,” said John, feeling rather stupid. “Sorry, not quite awake yet,” he added as he grasped Sherlock’s and carefully rose to his feet.

“Are you steady?” asked Sherlock as he prepared to let go of his friend’s hand.

“As I’ll ever be,” responded John with a sigh.

“Excellent. Everything is prepared, so let us proceed to the washroom.”

“Hunh?” asked a confused John. “What do you mean ‘prepared’? What have you done?”

“I’ve prepared everything for you to have a shower,” responded Sherlock. “You’ve not been able to shower since your release from hospital and to be honest, you are becoming slightly malodourous. So, I’ve got towels on the warming rod, I’ve placed a chair in the tub for you to sit on while you shower, I’ve got both soap and shampoo out and I’m now I’m simply waiting for you.”

“Wait … what?! You’re waiting for me? Why?” asked John, rather fearful that he already knew the response to his question.

“I’m waiting for you so I can help you shower.” The “obviously, you idiot” remained unsaid, but evident.

“You are _not_ helping me shower!” shrieked John. “I am perfectly capable of washing myself. I’ve been doing so since I was five year’s old. For God’s sake, Sherlock!”

Sherlock stood two steps away from John, watching him closely and letting John’s rant go in one ear and out the other.

Once John had finished speaking, Sherlock drawled, “Really John. Do you honestly think you are capable of showering on your own? First off, your left arm – your dominate arm I may add – is out of commission. You cannot stand for any period of time, hence the chair. You cannot bend over because of your ribs and the bruising. How do you expect to be able to wash your legs or your hair … hmmm?”

Embarrassing as it was, John realized that Sherlock was right. As he stood at the side of the bed, swaying slightly, he came to the conclusion that unless he accepted Sherlock’s assistance, there was no way he was going to be able to shower.

“It’s just … well … argh!” exclaimed John as he threw his right arm up and wobbled on his non-too-steady feet. Righting himself, he continued, “I’m sorry, Sherlock; you’re absolutely right. I can’t do it on my own, but you shouldn’t have to help.”

“Would you prefer Mrs. Hudson?” asked Sherlock in all seriousness.

“God in Heaven, no!” stated John firmly. “That would be just too … too …”

“Exactly,” agreed Sherlock. “So, will you let me help you? I’ve even put your swim trunks in the loo in case you were too embarrassed to have me see you naked.”

“That’s … actually quite thoughtful,” said John as he glanced up at his friend. “But no, I can handle this. After all, you seem perfectly comfortable swanning around in only your bed sheets; I should be able to handle you seeing me covered with soap.”

With a little bit of manoeuvring and a great deal of help from the Detective, John made it safely into the washroom and soon found himself bare as the day he was born, sitting on a plastic chair placed in the tub and trying not to blush in embarrassment. Sherlock, though, proceeded as if there was nothing odd about the situation and his matter-of-factness quickly calmed John’s nerves.

Sherlock had done an excellent job in preparing the area: He had not only placed their bath mat in the tub, he had also laid down a damp towel under the chair legs to ensure it would not slip across the porcelain at an inopportune moment. He had placed John’s shower gel and a new washcloth on the edge of the tub and he was presently testing the water streaming from the shower head to ensure it was neither too hot nor too cold. He had even remembered to bring along a bin bag and tape to cover John’s cast so it wouldn’t get wet.

“All set?” he asked, looking down at his friend.

A hum, which Sherlock took to mean ‘yes’, was the only response he go so, presuming all was well, Sherlock proceeded to direct the spray of water towards John’s head and back. John’s shoulders were tense, mainly because he was sure the force of the water would aggravate his injuries, but Sherlock once again proved his genius. The water flow was strong enough to be effective but not so strong as to cause pain and the temperature was absolutely perfect. John moaned in pleasure. The water felt so good on his skin and he was looking forward to getting the smell of hospital out of his nose. 

On hearing John’s moan, Sherlock quickly asked, “Are you okay?”

John grinned up at his friend and said, “Perfect. I’m just perfect. Now, hand me the soap and washcloth and I’ll see how far I can get on my own.”

The next few minutes the two men worked in perfect harmony. John was able to lather up and wash his chest and stomach as well as the upper portion of his legs, and Sherlock manipulated the shower spray to rinse away all evidence of soap once John had finished. However, by the time he’d done what he could, John was both exhausted and still only half-clean.

"May I?” asked Sherlock diffidently as he held out his hand for the soapy washcloth. John grimaced, but handed it over and leaned back against the chair. A tap on his left foot caused him to raise it slightly and Sherlock got right to work soaping and rinsing. He was extremely gentle when soaping up John’s right leg, so John didn’t feel anything other than the soft movement of the cloth over bare skin.

Sherlock then shifted position so he was now standing behind John in the shower, with the water spraying off to the side. “Can you shift forward a bit so I can wash your back?” he asked. John leaned slightly forward, his face contorted in pain, while Sherlock quickly washed and then rinsed the soap off John’s back. Once again, he was very careful whenever he came anywhere near John’s shoulder and his touch was whisper-light as he passed the cloth over the deep purple bruises that covered most of John’s torso.

“Lean back and I’ll wash your hair,” he said. John gingerly leaned back against the chair and tilted his head back, keeping his eyes shut. He sensed Sherlock shifting behind him – presumably reaching for the bottle of shampoo – and then he heard the distinctive pop of the cap being opened. The smell of citrus, rosemary and something else that John couldn’t name filled the room and his eyes snapped open. 

“Sherlock!” he exclaimed as he raised his head, “Bloody hell, you’re not using your hundred-pound-a-bottle shampoo on me. Where’s mine?”

Sherlock glanced down at his friend with a look of disgust on his face. “I am _not_ going anywhere _near_ your £3-I-got-it-on-sale-at-Boots shampoo, and neither should you. It’s disgusting what it does to your hair and the smell of it is horrid. Seriously, nothing in nature smells that bad unless it’s been dead three weeks! Now, be quiet, lean back and let me finish.”

“It’s not that bad,” said John stubbornly. “Besides, it does what it needs to do – it cleans my hair. That’s all I want from my shampoo.”

“John, trust me, you are going to see the error of your ways once I’m done. Now, _lean back_ or do you want shampoo in your eyes?”

Seeing that there was no way he was going to win this one, John sighed as deeply as he could, winced, closed his eyes and leaned back. Sherlock poured some shampoo into his palm, rubbed his hands lightly together and then began massaging the suds through John’s hair. 

Despite the pain of his ribs, his leg, his shoulder; despite being unable to properly breathe; despite being slightly embarrassed and rather put-out that his demands were being ignored, John could not argue with the fact that having Sherlock wash his hair was actually quite a luxurious experience. John had always been a sucker for having his head massaged. Even as a child, when he was feeling ill or anxious, all his mother had to do was get her young son to sit down beside her while she tenderly ran her fingers through his hair and scratched lightly at his scalp, and John would immediately calm. Even now, almost thirty years later, a scalp massage had the same effect.

John slumped slightly on the chair, his neck loose, and allowed his head to shift and swivel under Sherlock’s gentle ministrations. He didn’t realize it, but he had even begun a low, tuneless humming that made the Consulting Detective smile.

Once Sherlock was sure every strand of hair was completely covered, he removed the shower head from its clip and rinsed away the shampoo, making sure every last bubble disappeared down the drain. John went to sit up, when he felt Sherlock’s hand on his shoulder holding him in place.

“I’m not done yet.”

“Hunh?” came the inelegant response from the put-upon doctor.

“Conditioner, John. I’ve not put in the conditioner yet.”

“Conditioner!” squawked John. “I don’t need conditioner. Seriously, Sherlock – I’m more of a ‘wash-and-go’ kind of guy. I don’t need fancy shampoos or conditioners or God knows what else in my hair. My hair is fine now that it’s clean. Just help me out of the tub.”

“John,” responded Sherlock as he quickly began rubbing the conditioner through the ash-blond-silver hair of his friend, “I’m not leaving you half-finished. Trust me; when I’m done, you are going to be pleasantly surprised at how healthy your hair is. You _need_ a conditioner – your ends are dry and damaged. Besides,” he added with a smirk, “it’s in there now … so you’ll just have to be patient!”

“Argh,” complained John. “You’re enjoying this way too much, you know.”

Sherlock simply grinned at his friend and began rinsing away the conditioner.

When he was finished his ministrations, Sherlock helped John to stand, handed him a towel to wrap around his waist and then carefully assisted him out of the tub. John succeeded in mostly drying himself before sitting on the closed toilet lid to dress. He managed, somehow, to get a clean pair of pyjama bottoms on, but the accompanying t-shirt was beyond his capabilities.

“Sherlock?” he called through to the bedroom, where Sherlock had disappeared once he saw John seated. “I could use a bit of help, please.” The consulting detective appeared in the doorway with yet another bottle in his hand.

“Of course, John. Just let me set this down.” Placing the bottle on the edge of the sink, Sherlock picked up the t-shirt that had slipped to the ground and handed it back to John. “Hold this,” he said, as he picked up the recently-discarded bottle and unscrewed the lid. The aroma of arnica wafted through the humid air, tickling John’s nose, but there was something else there as well.

“I smell arnica but I can’t place the other aroma,” said John as he watched Sherlock pour some white cream onto his hands and then gesture John to sit up straight.

“Well, there’s comfrey and a few other herbs in here. It’s a liniment of my own devising,” said Sherlock as he carefully spread the lotion across the bruises that covered John’s torso.

“Of course it is,” said John with a smirk. “You couldn’t just go down to Boots and pick up some Tiger Balm. No … instead you have create your own treatment!”

“ _Mine_ is a much more efficacious treatment,” said Sherlock rather haughtily, as he wiped his hands off on the discarded towel and then proceeded to re-wrap John’s ribs. “You know,” he added, “it would be quite useful on your shoulder, too.”

“I’m sure it is,” said John soothingly. “If nothing else, it at least smells better than what I usually use.” John grimaced and winced as Sherlock tied off the wrapping and then proceed to ease the t-shirt over his head. By the time he was dressed, he was panting slightly from the exertion and the pain and he said, “God, I’m getting old if putting on a t-shirt winds me.”

“Don’t be an idiot, John,” said Sherlock as he rummaged in the medicine cabinet and pulled out a small, flat jar. “You’re injured. Any movement is going to be excruciating and exhausting. Now, one last step and then I’ll comb your hair and help you to the sitting room. The tea is steeping as we speak.”

“What are you putting in my hair _now_?” asked John, rather exasperated by this point with all the fussing.

“A light pomade on your ends; you’ve got terrible split ends. That’s what comes of using cheap products. You should take more care of your hair, John, or you run the risk of early hair loss.”

“Oh for God’s sake. Fine! Just be quick, hunh? I really need some caffeine.”

Five minutes later, John’s hair was primped and styled to Sherlock’s liking and the doctor was finally ensconced on the sofa, his leg elevated and a soothing cup of hot tea clenched in his right hand.

Taking a sip of the warming liquid, John gave a small sigh of appreciation – seriously, when he could be bothered, Sherlock made _excellent_ tea. He called to his friend who was in the kitchen preparing a slice of toast with blackberry jam for John to enjoy with his tea, and said, “I still don’t see what all the fuss was over my hair. It’s just my hair. I keep it short for a reason – so I don’t have to go through all that each time I have a shower. It’s just not me.”

Sherlock stepped over to the sofa, handed John a plate with the toast already cut into smaller, bit-sized portions and simply smiled at his blogger, saying nothing. He then stepped back into the kitchen, plunked himself down in front of his microscope and began noting the results of his latest experiment.

About an hour later, John had finished both tea and toast, and had read through the newspaper that Sherlock had thoughtfully left on the table at the side of the sofa. He looked about the room for a few moments and then brought his right hand up to his head, ready to run his hand through his hair in frustration. The book he had been reading was perched on “his” chair and though it was only across the room, it could have been in Timbuktu for all that John could reach it. 

But, as his fingers touched his head, all thoughts of his book vanished. He ran his fingers through his short tresses, and then did it again. Never in his life could he remember his hair feeling so silky and soft. There was no roughness to the strands; his hair felt _healthy_!

As he sat there, running his fingers through his hair and marveling at the feeling, John didn’t realize that Sherlock had moved from his position and was now standing in the kitchen doorway, watching his friend with a smile on his face. _Never doubt me_ , thought the Consulting Detective, _I know the proper way to treat one’s hair_.


	5. Chapter 5

Later that afternoon, John was sitting in his chair watching football on the telly while Sherlock was seated at his microscope intently examining something – John didn’t want to know what. Mrs. Hudson had kindly brought them lunch earlier and had sat with them while they ate. Or at least tried to eat.

Mrs. Hudson was a wonderful woman, and John loved her dearly, but she’d obviously not given much thought to John’s injuries when she arrived with a large pot of soup. His left arm was encased in a cast, which meant that his free hand was his right hand. But, of course, being left-handed that meant that it was quite a struggle for John to get soup onto the spoon, let alone to his mouth. 

He didn’t want to be rude and refuse the potato and leek soup that Mrs. Hudson had made from scratch, but he’d been at it for five minutes and very little had made it into his mouth. He was considering saying he wasn’t hungry but his stomach was about two seconds away from grumbling when a mug appeared in front of him.

“Here,” said Sherlock, as he interrupted Mrs. Hudson’s ramblings. “This will work much better.” Taking the spoon from John’s hand, he then poured the soup into the mug and placed it on the table in front of him. John smiled up at his friend, mouthed “thank you” and took a sip of the soup. “Mmm, delicious soup, Mrs. Hudson,” he said as he placed the mug back down on the table.

Mrs. Hudson was so intent on her story of how she and Mrs. Turner were convinced her “married ones” had cheated during their last bridge game that she didn’t even realize that John had complimented her soup, let alone was now drinking it out of mug. Sherlock and John shared a fond grin and returned to their meal.

It wasn’t long before John began shifting uncomfortably on his chair; his ribs were aching and being upright for such a lengthy period of time was quite painful. Sherlock noticed John’s movements and quickly overrode Mrs. Hudson’s conversation.

“I think it’s time for you to go, Mrs. Hudson,” he said as he picked up the now-empty pot and placed it in the sink. He turned back and, gently grasping Mrs. Hudson’s arm, pulled her to her feet and began hustling her towards the door. “It’s just about time for John to take another painkiller and they tend to make him sleep. I’ll bring you back your pot once it’s clean.”

John sat in his chair with an amazed look on his face; he still wasn’t used to this “kind and caring” Sherlock. The dark-haired man’s voice grew fainter as he led Mrs. Hudson to the door and basically pushed her out onto the landing. “Thank you so much for lunch, it was very kind of you,” he said while trying to close the door to the flat.

“Good bye, John. Call if you need anything,” she called into the flat. “And you,” she said to Sherlock in a quiet but firm voice, “you take care of the poor doctor. No smelly experiments or explosions!”

“Yes, Mrs. Hudson,” responded Sherlock as he firmly closed the door behind her.

By the time Sherlock had taken the eight paces from the door to the kitchen, John had managed to push himself away from the table and was upright, although leaning heavily on the table while fumbling for his crutch.

“John,” said Sherlock, “you should have waited for me!”

“I’m fine, Sherlock. Really. I want to try to make it to my chair unaided, but if you wouldn’t mind staying close …” he said rather abashedly. John was embarrassed at having to ask for assistance, but he knew it couldn’t be helped. He still was not quite steady on his feet and any incautious movement made him wince in pain.

Limping very slowly from the kitchen table and with Sherlock keeping close, John was completely winded by the time he made it to his chair. It had taken him almost two minutes of effort, with his knee twinging and his ankle complaining at the weight he’d placed on it, but he’d made it. And on his own! Feeling quite pleased with himself, John eased himself into his chair and raised his right leg to rest on the ottoman that Sherlock had positioned there earlier.

Proud of his friend’s accomplishment, but concerned over the state of his breathing, Sherlock said, “Are you okay? Can I get you anything?”

“A glass of water would be lovely, thanks,” said John, trying to make himself as comfortable as possible.

In the few moments it took for Sherlock to retrieve John’s glass of water, the injured doctor had managed to settle himself in his chair and had got both his breathing and his pain under control.

“Here,” said Sherlock as he handed John two white pills. “It’s time for your painkillers and your anti inflammatories. If there’s nothing you need for the next little while, I’m going to go take a shower.”

“You go right ahead,” said John once he’d swallowed his pills, “I’m fine right where I am and I have no intention of moving.” To prove the point, he placed the now half-full glass on the small table beside his chair and reaching for the remote, turned on the telly.

It wasn’t long before the pills, the full stomach and the droning voices on the telly put John into a light doze. He was tired enough that he didn’t hear the distinctive sound of £500 Gucci loafers on the stairs, nor the creak of the door to the flat as it was pushed open.

Mycroft was finally making an appearance.

Stepping into the sitting room, the British Government could see that John was asleep, and the sound of water starting up pinpointed Sherlock’s location. Experience had taught Mycroft that his younger brother would be occupied for at least 20 minutes, what with showering and then dealing with his often recalcitrant curls. That fit in with Mycroft’s plans nicely.

Mycroft settled himself in Sherlock’s chair across from the dozing doctor and proceeded to study the injured man. Between the cast on his arm, the brace on his knee and the boot that encased his right foot, it was obvious that the smaller man had suffered a great deal. Not to mention the bruises that were visible at the neck of his t-shirt and down his right arm, or the fact that his breathing was rather laboured. _Cracked or broken ribs_ , thought Mycroft sadly.

Though he would never say so aloud, Mycroft was rather fond of his brother’s friend and flatmate. Doctor Watson was a kind soul who honestly cared about his brother and went out of his way to ensure that Sherlock was “fed and watered”, so to speak. He was a handy man to have at your side in a conflict – and Lord knows Sherlock got into plenty of those – and his skills as a doctor had come in useful on several occasions. But what really endeared the doctor to Mycroft was the fact that he was perfectly able to stand up for himself; he was no pushover, nor was he easily intimidated. Their first meeting had proved that without a doubt.

Cataloguing the younger man’s injuries, Mycroft nodded to himself; seeing John looking so damaged confirmed that his decision was the correct one. He was just about to announce his presence, when a snuffling sound came from the man seated across from him. John wrinkled his nose and his eyes slowly opened. On seeing someone seated across from him, John’s head jerked up and his eyes flew open.

“Jesus Christ, Mycroft!” he panted as his tried to catch his breath. “You scared the shit out of me! Don’t do that!”

“My apologies John, it was never my intention to alarm you.”

Catching his breath, John gasped, “It’s fine, it’s fine.” Once he was feeling slightly more composed he said, “If you’re looking for Sherlock, he shouldn’t be long. He’s in the shower.”

“Actually,” responded the Government man, “I came to see you. How are you doing?”

“Well, just about everything hurts but it could be worse. At least I’m relatively upright and relatively mobile. And thank the Lord I’ve got Sherlock to count on!”

Mycroft raised his eyebrow in disbelief at John’s comment and carried on as if John had never spoken. “I cannot imagine that 221B is proving to be the most hospitable place for your recuperation, and I’m sure that my little brother is proving to be rather useless at providing assistance,” drawled the older man. “I can make arrangements for Sherlock to be out of the country on a case for a few days and get a real nurse in to provide assistance, should you so desire. Or, if you prefer, I can also arrange for you to spend some time at an exclusive rehabilitation hospice until you feel able enough to get around on your own. All you have to do is say the word. Believe me, I know what Sherlock can be like and I’m sure by now he’s driving you around the bend, as they say.”

Listening to Mycroft tear down his friend riled John. He knew the brothers had a difficult relationship, but to just step in and offer to remove Sherlock from the equation? That was uncalled for.

“Actually, Mycroft, things are perfect as they are,” responded John in a forceful tone. “Sherlock is handling everything incredibly well and I’d rather be here, at home, than carted off to some _institution,_ no matter how poncy or reputable it is. So, you can just forget about packing Sherlock off to some foreign clime for the duration. I’m staying here, and so is he,” concluded John.

Surprised at both the tone and content of John’s speech, Mycroft raised his eyebrow and said, “If you insist.” He knew better than to engage in a war of words with the ex-Army Doctor.

“I do insist,” said John.

“Well, in any event a car will be made available to ferry you to and from your various doctor and physiotherapy appointments,” said Mycroft. Seeing that John was about to refuse, he added, in a gentler voice, “Please, I’d like to help in whatever way I can.”

Mycroft’s tone caused John to take a good look at the older man and it was obvious, even to John, that the offer was being made in all sincerity; Mycroft truly did want to help. “That’s a very kind offer, Mycroft,” said John with a smile, “and one I shan’t refuse. I’ll email you the list of my appointments once it’s finalized.”

“Oh, don’t bother,” responded Mycroft with a smirk. “I am already in possession of all the dates and times. There will be car waiting for you next Friday, at 9:30, to take you to the hospital for your follow up.”

John stared at Mycroft and said, “You know, it’s rather creepy when you say things like that.”

Before Mycroft could respond, his phone gave a _bing_ and glancing down, he said, “Ah, well. John, I must be off. I am pleased to see that you are doing well. I am even more pleased to hear that Sherlock is rising to the occasion.” Mycroft stood up from the chair and headed towards the door adding, “Please do not hesitate to contact me should you require anything. I’ll see you again soon.” 

And then he was gone.

A few moments later, Sherlock stepped into the sitting room, dressed and with a damp towel in his hands. Taking a quick look around the room, he said, “And what did my _dear_ brother want?”

“I still don’t know how you do that,” said John with a smile. “Actually, he came by to see how I was doing.”

“Hmm, that seems rather … out of the ordinary for Mycroft. Was that it? No ulterior motive?” asked Sherlock in a suspicious tone.

“Well, that and to offer me the use of one of his cars to ferry me to and from my various appointments. I thought it was rather kind of him,” said John. There was no way he was going to mention Mycroft’s other offer – the one to get rid of Sherlock for a few days. That was never going to happen if John had any say in the matter.

“I’m surprised he didn’t offer to move you to a rehab center, or even figure out a way to get me out of town for a few days. That is more along the lines of something he’d do.”

“Well,” said John, “that never came up. Besides, I’m not leaving home, nor are you. I’m fine right where I am and I couldn’t manage without you.”

Sherlock blushed at his friend’s kind words and to cover his embarrassment he turned away and called, “Tea?” as he headed down the hallway towards his room.


	6. Chapter 6

Day six of John’s recovery brought another visitor to 221B. While Greg had stopped by a couple of times since the accident, it was always a flying visit as he was usually on his way back to the office. Today, though, was his day off and he decided to spend an hour or two with John, and at the same time allow Sherlock to get out of the flat should he so choose.

Greg knew that Sherlock’s heart was in the right place when he’d stated he’d be the one to care for John during his recovery. The policeman had been witness over the years to the subtle kindness that Sherlock was capable of showing; but Greg was no fool either. He understood, perhaps better than John, that when a puzzle arose the lanky Consulting Detective would forget everything on his quest to solve the mystery. Greg just didn’t want John to be the thing forgotten.

The D.I. grabbed his coat and the item that he’d located the previous day. It was a gift for John; one that he knew the smaller man would appreciate. 

A knock on the front door of 221B, a brief greeting to Mrs. Hudson and soon Greg was making his way up the 17 steps that led to the men’s flat. He stashed his gift beside the small barrister’s bookcase that sat on the landing and entered 221B.

“Ah, Lestrade,” said Sherlock, as he looked up from the _Forensics Magazine_ he was reading. John was propped upright on the sofa and was thumbing through a back issue of the _BMJ_.

“Good afternoon, John, Sherlock. Just though I’d stop by to see how you two are getting on.”

“Have a seat,” said John with a smile as he indicated an overstuffed chair that was now position near the sofa. It had appeared out of nowhere the previous morning.

“Thanks, John. So, how’s the recovery going?”

“Quite well,” responded John as he put down his journal and turned slightly in order to be able to see Greg without straining his neck. His grimace of pain quickly caused Greg to stand and shift the chair slightly so it was in John’s line of sight. A nod of thanks and John continued, “There have been some definite improvements with both my shoulder and my ribs, so that’s good news. My knee is still extremely sore and my ankle protests at the least amount of weight, but all in all – I can’t complain.”

Watching the two men interact for a moment, Sherlock wondered about the reason for Lestrade’s visit. Closing his magazine and placing it on his chair after he stood, he said, “Lestrade, I can see from your garments that you are off work today and intend to spend some time entertaining John. Afraid he’s already bored with me, hmm?”

“Not at all,” said Lestrade. “I find it difficult to believe that anyone would be bored with you around! But, you’re right. I’m off duty so I figured today would be the perfect day to spend some time with you, John – assuming you don’t already have other plans.”

Before John could speak, Sherlock said, “Don’t be an idiot, Lestrade. What plans could John possibly have? He’s still housebound.”

John quirked his eyebrow at Sherlock, but other than frown slightly he made no comment. After all, Sherlock was right … he was stuck indoors for the foreseeable future and any sort of distraction would be greatly appreciated.

“You know Sherlock, now that Greg’s here and has already stated his plan to spend the afternoon, why don’t you take advantage of the opportunity and go down to see Molly at the morgue, or check in with your homeless network? Get out of the house for a bit; it will do you good,” said John.

“Oh, um … well,” said Sherlock, trying not to look upset but failing miserably.

Knowing that his friend often had difficulties navigating relationships, John smiled and said, “You don’t have to leave if you don’t want to; I’m not trying to get rid of you. You’ve been absolutely aces at taking care of me for the past few days, but I thought maybe you’d appreciate the change of scenery. I’ll be fine and Greg’s here, so there’s nothing to worry about.”

“I’m not worried,” snapped Sherlock, but both John and Greg could see that the younger man truly was concerned about his friend. “Still, you do have a point, John. I should speak with Molly about the Garabaldi autopsy and while I’m out, I’ll pick up your new prescription.” 

Slipping on his beloved Belstaff and draping his scarf around his neck, Sherlock said, “I’ve got my phone so if you need anything, text me. Greg, I’m leaving John in your care while I’m out. I shouldn’t be more than two hours. Make him some tea; he likes a cup around this time of day.”

“Yes sir,” responded Greg with a salute to Sherlock’s back as the other whirled out of the doorway and down the stairs. A loud _thud_ of the front door closing heralded his departure from the building.

“So,” said Greg with a grin. “Tea?”

John groaned and said, “God no. If I drink any more tea today, I’ll float away. So, how’re things at Scotland Yard?”

The two friends spent the next ten minutes or so chatting. Greg duly passed on various good wishes for a speedy recovery from several members of his team, including Donovan, and also relayed the latest gossip that was making the rounds of the Met.

Suddenly Greg sat up and said, “I almost forgot. I’ve brought you something.” Rising from his seat, he stepped out to the landing and returned seconds later holding a long narrow box in his hand. Reclaiming his chair, he carefully placed the box on John’s lap and said, “This is for you.”

Looking rather surprised, John lifted the lid off the box and stared at the contents. Contained in the box was a cane. No, not a cane; a true Victorian-style walking stick made of what looked to be cherry wood. It had sturdy shaft and a carved wooden handle burnished to a shine from years of use.

John stared at the gift, his mouth open and his eyes wide. He lifted it out of the box and turned it over in his hands. It was beautiful!

“I’m pretty sure it will be the right height for you,” said Greg as he watched John examine the cane closely. “My Pap was just about your height, and he had it slightly modified to suit him. It will be much more impressive than those aluminium things the NHS hands out. It also has a secret,” he said.

John glanced over at Greg and, seeing the glint in the older man’s eye, returned his attention to the cane. “Is it … it is! It’s a tippling stick, isn’t it?” he asked with glee.

“Yep! The vial is big enough to hold about 2 ounces of whatever you desire. In fact, I’ve already filled it with The Macallan 18-year-old scotch. You know, for when Sherlock gets to be a bit much to deal with and you feel the need for a little nip. I mean, Sherlock is a great friend, but I can’t imagine he’s proving to be the most helpful person right at the moment. Are you _sure_ you don’t want to stay at mine for a bit?”

John looked at Greg, a bit upset at the comments about Sherlock, but he knew that the D.I. was only concerned about him. “Greg,” he said, “Thank you so much for the cane. It is exquisite, though I won’t be using it for a while. I’m still stuck with the crutch for a little bit longer.”

John leaned the cane against the side of the sofa and continued, “You know, Sherlock’s been great. Really. He’s given me his room for the duration. He’s even removed the various body parts from the fridge and is keeping his experiments to ones that don’t involve toxic chemicals, potential fire hazards or noxious aromas. And, he’s become extremely adept at assisting with the strapping around my ribs and getting my knee brace properly positioned. I honestly don’t know what I’d do if he wasn’t here to help. He’s even put a list on the fridge that includes not only the names of the medications I’ve got, but also any potential side-effects.”

Greg listened to John and the more the ex-Army doctor spoke, the more amazed the D.I. became. “Sherlock?” he asked. “The same man who once arrived at a crime scene in his pyjamas?”

John giggled and then winced. “Oh, Lord, don’t make me laugh,” he said has he placed his right arm across his chest.

“Oh, God, John. I’m so sorry,” said a slightly panicked Greg. “Are you okay?”

Catching his breath, John said, “I’m fine Greg. Don’t worry.”

“Well,” said Greg, “if it is as you say and Sherlock is taking such care with you, I am impressed.”

The rest of the afternoon was spent watching football on the telly, Greg with a beer and John with glass of orange juice. At half-time, Greg turned to his friend and said, “I happened to notice the list you mentioned earlier on the fridge. Isn’t it about time for one of your medications? Can I get it for you?”

Looking over at the time flashing on the DVD player, John said, “Yeah, it is; but don’t bother. The anti inflammatories I was prescribed were doing a number on my stomach. Sherlock figured out the problem even before I did, so he raised hell and got me a new prescription. In fact, he’s going to pick it up for me on his way home. Thanks for the offer, though. Hey, look, game’s starting up again.”

Greg leaned back in his seat, watching the game while at the same time ruminating over everything John had told him. It seemed he’d completely underestimated Sherlock’s capabilities, and he couldn’t have been more pleased to have been proven wrong. Pulling his attention from his thoughts, he turned to his friend.

“John, remember I once told you that if we were very lucky, one day Sherlock would prove to be a good man?”

“Yeah, I remember,” said John confusedly, wondering where his friend was going with this line of conversation.

Greg smiled at his friend. “I think that day has come,” he said.


	7. Chapter 7

Things had been quiet in the flat for the past couple of days. His his follow-up with Doctor Samja had gone well, but John was still hobbling around with his crutch as he’d not yet graduated to the cane that Lestrade had kindly gifted to him. But, he was definitely feeling better, even though his ribs still ached and the bruising was now turning all sorts of glorious colours. The deep purple and blue marks had lightened and now bore hints of yellow and green. Looking at John’s torso now was almost like looking through a kaleidoscope. 

John’s knee was still encased in the brace, and his ankle was still booted, but his range of movement had increased significantly. Even his shoulder was feeling better. The inflammation was considerably reduced, and while he was still wearing the sling as the weight from the cast on his arm continued to be too much for his shoulder to bear, at least he was no longer in constant agony. Now the pain seemed to come in waves instead, but John wasn’t sure which was better. At least with the constant pain, he knew where he stood, so to speak. Now, he had moments when he actually felt human again. That is, until he’d forget and breathe too deeply or move carelessly and suddenly he’d been seeing stars and tears of pain would form at the corners of his eyes.

He was bored, too. Not Sherlock’s ‘shoot the wall’ level of bored, but bored just the same. As much as he loved 221B, he could only have so many mental conversations with the skull, or let his gaze drift over the familiar contours of furniture and piles of paper, before he felt like he was going stir-crazy. But, he knew that it was still too early, and he was still too unsettled on his feet, to even attempt walking across the room at any speed, let alone tackle the 17 steps that led down to the ground floor and their front door.

Sherlock was out at the moment; he’d volunteered to pick up John’s prescription refill at the chemist’s and would bring back dinner as well. The simple act of eating was proving to be an adventure, what with trying to determine what John could manage. With his dominant hand in a cast and sling he was forced to do everything with his right hand, which meant that not only was eating an extremely slow process, it was also quite messy. So … his favourite Pad Thai was off the menu because of … well, the noodles; Sherlock turned his nose up at pizza; pasta was difficult because he hated having to ask Sherlock to cut up his lasagne into bite-sized pieces. So, in the end, tonight would be curry night.

John was sitting comfortably – well, as comfortably as could be expected for a man who’d fallen almost ten feet off the side of a building onto the concrete pavement – with a fresh cup of tea at his side and the most recent _BMJ_ on his lap. He was engrossed in an article about the treatment of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder in returning soldiers and didn’t hear Mrs. Hudson making her way up the stairs.

“Whoo hoo,” called Mrs. Hudson as she stepped into the sitting room.

“Mrs. Hudson, good afternoon. What can I do for you?” asked John.

“Oh, John, you poor dear,” twittered Mrs. Hudson. “How are you feeling today?”

“Actually, Mrs. Hudson, I feel pretty good, considering.” John tried to sit up straighter in his chair but the movement caused his ribs to grate and he grimaced in momentary pain.

“John! What are you doing? Here, let me,” said Mrs. Hudson as she hurried over to his side and in her usual kind and bustling manner soon had John sitting up straight, with a pillow tucked at the small of his back and another under his left elbow helping to support his arm and take the strain off his shoulder.

Once she was happy that John was comfortable, Mrs. Hudson stepped back and then proceeded to perch on the edge of Sherlock’s chair. John smiled at his landlady and said, “Ta, Mrs. H.”

Mrs. Hudson looked around the room and then said, “Is Sherlock not here?”

“No,” began John, when Mrs. Hudson continued speaking over him.

“That boy! I’ll have words with him when he gets back. Leaving you here, all on your own, and you like … well …” and she waved her hand at him to show him what she meant. As if John wasn’t fully aware of his physical limits. “ _Honestly_ ,” she continued, “I thought he knew better!”

“Mrs. Hudson … Mrs. Hudson. Relax, it’s okay. Sherlock kindly offered to go to the chemist to pick up my refill, and then he’s coming right back. He’s bringing dinner as well. Besides, it’s not like I’m alone. I have you here, don’t I,” said John firmly, but with a smile.

Mrs. Hudson flushed slightly and said, “Yes, well …”

Still smiling, John reached over and picked up the mug of tea that Sherlock had made for him before he’d left. The rim of the mug was just about at his lips when Mrs. Hudson said, “John! Is that tea? Don’t tell me you were up and about making yourself tea, when I was just downstairs. Seriously, wandering about, doing too much … and you call yourself a doctor.” A sniff followed her pronouncement.

John grinned and said, “No, Mrs. Hudson. I wasn’t up and about making tea. Sherlock made it for me before he left.”

“Sherlock? Made tea?” asked Mrs. Hudson, rather surprised. She was convinced the lanky detective didn’t know where their kettle was, let alone the mugs or tea bags. 

“Yes, Mrs. Hudson,” responded John patiently. “Sherlock made me tea.”

“Are you sure it’s just tea?” she asked worriedly.

“What else would it be?” asked John, his brow furrowing as he looked down in his mug.

“Well, with Sherlock you never really know, do you dear?” Standing up, she plied the mug from John’s grasp and said, “Here, _I’ll_ make you a new cup that you can enjoy without worry,” and she disappeared into the kitchen.

John sat in his chair, shaking his head in amazement. He knew there was nothing wrong with Sherlock’s tea. Ever since the events at Baskerville, Sherlock was now always very careful to reassure John that the tea was simply that – tea and nothing else. And, to John’s amazement, the Detective was quite the dab hand at both tea- and coffee-making. Sherlock may deny it, but his tea-making skills were definitely on par with John’s. 

John didn’t have the heart to remind Mrs. Hudson that he’d been imbibing Sherlock’s tea for quite a while now, to no ill effect. After all, what harm would it do to allow her to make him a fresh cup? It made her feel good, and he got a hot cuppa out of the deal. 

Still, it rankled that Mrs. Hudson seemed to think that Sherlock was either unwilling or incapable of providing assistance or being there when John needed him. Mycroft’s attitude John could understand; after all, he’d seen Sherlock at his best and his worst. The same with Lestrade. John had been told the story of how Lestrade had found the strung-out young genius hanging around a crime scene and who, when questioned, had solved the case in less than five minutes. Lestrade had seen something in Sherlock and had given him an ultimatum: get clean or stay home. It took a couple of tries, but the Consulting Detective had finally overcome his demons. So, yeah, John could understand why Lestrade doubted Sherlock’s commitment to help.

But Mrs. Hudson? It hurt John to think that she didn’t have faith in the lodger she loved like a son. After all, wasn’t he the one who had freed her from her abusive husband’s clutches, and in such a manner that she never had to worry about Frank Hudson darkening her doorway ever again?

Thus, when Mrs. Hudson returned to hand a fresh, hot mug of tea to John, he said, “Mrs. Hudson, would you sit down please.”

“Of course, John. Is something wrong?”

“No. In fact, everything is right. Thank you for the tea, I truly appreciate it; but you didn’t have to make me a new cup. It’s just that … um … look, it’s this way. You don’t need to worry about me. Sherlock is being an excellent friend and caretaker. He’s become an ace at helping with my knee brace and sling, he makes sure I take my meds and that there is always food in the house. He makes me tea and coffee all the time. And as humiliating as it is to admit, he’s even taken to washing my hair for me.” 

By the time he’d finished his speech, John was red-faced with embarrassment and Mrs. Hudson was cooing and had tears in her eyes. Leaning over and patting John’s arm, she said, “I knew you’d be good for him. I always thought Sherlock had potential to be a warm and caring person and you’ve brought that out in him.”

“But … I didn’t do anything,” protested John.

“Don’t fool yourself, young man,” responded Mrs. Hudson firmly. “You’ve changed Sherlock for the better. But he’s done the same to you, hasn’t he? You’re not the same man who moved in all those months ago, are you?”

John blinked owlishly at his landlady. He’d never really thought about it before, but she was right. Sherlock _had_ changed John … and thank God he had. John didn’t know where he’d be or even if he’d still be around if it wasn’t for his insane genius of a best friend.

A warm smile grew across John’s face as he focused his attention back towards his landlady. “Nothing gets past you, does it Mrs. Hudson?” asked John as he placed his now empty mug on the table beside his chair. “You’re absolutely right – if it wasn’t for Sherlock …”

Mrs. Hudson smiled wisely at her lodger and stood, saying, “I’m glad we had this talk, John. I’ll be downstairs if you need me.” Then she quietly exited the sitting room, gently closing the door behind her.

Not five minutes later, Sherlock came bounding into the sitting room, the aroma of vegetable curry and samosas wafting through the air as he walked through to the kitchen.

Stepping back to John’s side, Sherlock pulled a bag out of one of his Belstaff’s voluminous pockets and dropped it in the doctor’s lap. “Your meds,” he said as he proceeded to hang his coat and scarf on the peg by the door.

“What did Mrs. Hudson want?” asked Sherlock as he turned back towards his friend. “Is everything all right?”

“Of course it is,” said John as he reviewed the instructions on the bottle of painkillers Sherlock had picked up for him. “Why do you ask?”

“Well, I wasn’t two steps in the door before our landlady pulled me into an extra-long hug and said _I knew you had it in you_. I’m beginning to think you may need to run some tests on her John; I afraid she’s losing her mind!”

John grinned at his friend and said, “Don’t worry about it, Sherlock. Mrs. Hudson is fine. We’re all fine, in fact. So … dinner? I’m starving!”


	8. Chapter 8

John’s recovery was proving to be long and hard on both residents of 221B. It seemed that, as the weeks passed, John’s progress went from lows to highs and then back again and his mood followed suit. His outlook covered the gamut from quiet and apologetic to depressed and angry, depending on what was happening with him physically. John’s mood-swings often left Sherlock confused, but he somehow managed to maintain his equilibrium throughout. He was never short with his injured friend; he never yelled or walked away in impatience.

Sherlock was immensely proud of John’s determination and perseverance in the face of adversity and didn’t hesitate to let John know. John, for his part, was exceedingly grateful for everything Sherlock had done and was continuing to do for him and made a point of telling him so at every opportunity. 

As for everyone else, any doubts they’d harboured about Sherlock’s abilities or John’s welfare were quickly quashed in the light of what they saw before them. They may have been an unconventional pair – an ex-addict self-diagnosed sociopath and an adrenaline-junkie ex-Army doctor – but their friendship and their compassion was a beautiful thing. They brought out the best in each other.

It was just unfortunate that John’s recovery was in no way what could be deemed "straightforward". Among other issues, he’d had to try three different anti-inflammatories before he found one that he could stomach – literally. Regrettably, the last set weren’t as effective as the previous two, but at least the injured man was no longer forced to deal with nausea and painful stomach cramps with the third set of pills. 

Recognizing that John was struggling with his limitations, Sherlock made sure to acknowledge – and at times even celebrate – all the firsts. The first time John walked from the bedroom to the sitting room with no assistance from his flatmate; the first time he showered on his own; the first time he managed the seventeen stairs that led from the flat to their front door; the first time they ventured outdoors; the first time John managed to go a day without resorting to his painkillers. They were all accomplishments and deserving of recognition. Sherlock even badgered Mrs. Hudson into making John’s favourite sweet – Eton mess – when, at five weeks, his cast finally came off.

Of course, once the cast was removed, physiotherapy began as John now had to rebuild strength in his arm and flexibility in his shoulder. Fortunately, Mycroft was true to his word and there was always a car waiting outside 221B to drive John to and from his physiotherapy appointments, so that was one worry off Sherlock’s mind. 

John’s physiotherapist, Steve, had come highly recommended. He was a no-nonsense, intense young man who, in John’s words, “could give my old drill instructor lessons!”

When John came home, exhausted and sweating after his first workout with Steve, Sherlock took one look at his friend and said, “Are you sure you’re not overdoing it, John? It is normal that you be like this after a session?”

“I guess you’ve never had physio before, hunh?” said John as he collapsed into his chair. “I’ll say this much; Steve definitely knows what he’s doing. And you’ve got to remember that I’ve got a lot of ground to make up. My arm and shoulder have been pretty much immobile for the past month or so, so everything is going to be hard and exhausting at the beginning. That’s the whole point of doing physio.”

“Well, if you’re sure,” said Sherlock rather doubtfully as he stepped into the kitchen to fetch a large glass of water for John.

Unfortunately, physio turned out to be not only hard and exhausting … it was also quite painful.

“I’m _fine_ ,” said John rather belligerently to his physiotherapist three sessions later. For whatever reason, every exercise Steve had him do hurt unbearably that day, but John was determined not to let a little pain stop him. “Let’s just keep going,” he insisted after Steve stopped the session only fifteen minutes in.

“That’s not going to happen, John,” responded Steve as he looked down at the older man who was clutching his shoulder and trying not to curse aloud. “You’re only going to do more damage pushing through. Look, this happens. Everyone’s entitled to a bad day, and this is yours. It’s not going to set you back any to take the day off. So, I want you to go home, relax and use a warm compress for about fifteen minutes.”

Seeing the glare on John’s face, Steve narrowed his eyes suspiciously, as though he could read John’s thoughts. “I especially don’t want you doing anything stupid like trying to do your exercises on your own," said Steve. "Your body needs a chance to recover. I’ll see you on Friday, yeah?”

“Fine,” snapped John as he snatched his towel from where it was laying at the end of the bench, stuffed it back into his bag and marched out of the work-out room.

By the time John made it home – he’d had to take a taxi and it seemed the cabbie hit every pothole between the hospital and Baker Street – he was in a rage and also in some serious pain.

The banging of the front door roused Sherlock from his mind palace. The sound of a walking boot pounding on the seventeen steps that led up to their flat alerted him that John was home early and was definitely not in a good mood. One look at the doctor’s face and Sherlock quickly swallowed his query. Instead, he simply walked into the kitchen and calmly made John a cup of tea.

After listening to John rant and rave for about ten minutes, Sherlock added another job to his mental list of “Things to do to help John” – physio partner. From then on, Sherlock attended every session with John, listened and absorbed everything Steve said and even had several discussions with the man about additional exercises John could do at home that would help speed his recovery. 

The ankle fracture also took longer to heal than expected, and that put John into a tailspin. He’d left home one morning, excited that he would be returning sans boot only to be told that he’d have to wear the thing for at least another two weeks. John had smiled at Doctor Samja, shook the man’s hand, said “Thank you,” and left the office with a volcano bubbling beneath his calm appearance.

By the time he’d arrived back at 221B, John was so incensed it was all Sherlock could do to stop the man from kicking the wall and damaging his ankle even more. It took most of the day, but Sherlock finally managed to calm down his feisty friend. When John tried to apologize for his actions, Sherlock brushed it aside with an “I understand, John. I’m disappointed for you, too.”

Up to that point in John’s recovery, Sherlock had refused any and all cases where he’d have to leave the flat. Determined to ensure that John never had to worry about anything, he had announced to Greg early on that the policeman was “welcome to bring cases to me, but I won’t be visiting any crime scenes any time soon.”

But after almost six weeks of living in each other’s back pockets, John had had enough. He needed some privacy and he knew that Sherlock was getting antsy. Crime scene photographs and witness statements could never replace first-hand impressions, so John urged Sherlock to head down to NSY to help Greg with his latest case. 

“I’ll be fine on my own, Sherlock. I’m managing to get around pretty good and I promise that I won’t do anything stupid,” said John. “I’m just going to sit here in my chair and watch a bit of telly. I may even take a nap. Mrs. Hudson is just next door at Mrs. Turner's, and if I need you I’ll text.”

“Well … if you’re sure,” said Sherlock, already slipping into his coat.

“Go!” said John with a chuckle. “Go show them how it’s done and solve the crime.”

“I’ll be back in a couple of hours,” called the detective as he hurried down the stairs.

Thank goodness Sherlock was as good as his word. About ten minutes before Sherlock was due to arrive home, John tried to get out of his chair when suddenly every muscle in his lower back and upper leg seized. He couldn’t budge for the pain; he couldn’t stand up nor could he lean back in his seat. Every movement was excruciating. “Oh God,” moaned John as he sat there, teetering and trying to keep as still as possible. He couldn’t even reach his phone which was sitting on the table an arm’s length away.

Fortunately, Sherlock arrived home shortly thereafter, took one look at John’s pain-filled eyes and quickly figured out what had happened. In slow increments, Sherlock helped John stand and then supported his friend as they made their way to the bedroom. Once John was seated on the edge of the bed, Sherlock helped him change into his pyjamas, dosed him with some painkillers and carefully worked the knots out of the seized muscles, all the while berating the doctor for his idiocy in not having moved in over two hours. “Honestly, John,” said Sherlock as he finally sat back and pulled the duvet over his now-relaxed friend. “You call yourself a doctor and look what you do to yourself!”

“Dammit Sherlock. I’m a doctor, not a physiotherapist,” murmured John as he snuggled under the blanket and yawned hugely. Then he sniggered and said, “Remind me to lay off _Star Trek_ for a while.”

Sherlock simply stared at his friend for a few long moments, shook his head and said, as he left the room, “Get some sleep. I’ll wake you when it’s time for dinner.”

Fortunately, that only happened the once and from then on it was relatively smooth sailing.


	9. Epilogue

It had been nine weeks since that terrible day. Nine weeks of pain and embarrassment; nine weeks of pushing himself though a physio regime that seemed to have been developed by a sadist. Nine weeks of self-pity that only grew worse as he was forced to watch his friend haring off on another case while he was stuck in the flat.

But it finally was over. Today was the first day that Sherlock had allowed John to attend a crime scene. The doctor was finally rid of the walking boot; his fracture was fully healed and his ankle was able to support his weight. The cast on his arm had come off weeks ago and his shoulder was back to normal … well, as normal as it would ever be, considering the bullet wound. 

In fact, the only indication that John was not up to snuff was the fact that he was still using the frankly _gorgeous_ walking stick that Greg had gifted to him all those weeks earlier. The ACL tear in John’s right knee was healing, albeit rather slowly, and he still required some support when walking. But John wasn’t complaining; in fact, he thought he looked rather dapper carrying the stick!

Walking stick and all, John was enjoying this perfect day. The sun was shining, the birds were chirping in the trees, there was a body splayed across the grass, and after far too long he was finally assisting at a crime scene. John was so happy to be there that he was sporting a grin to rival the Cheshire cat and was bouncing lightly on his toes.

Lestrade was standing with John at the edge of a patch of grass, the two of them watching Sherlock flit around in front of them, his eyes taking in everything, his hands quickly depositing various things into evidence bags and his voice rising and falling as he spouted his observations aloud. Noticing the not-so-subtle movement from his companion, Greg watched John for a couple of seconds before saying, very seriously, “Oi, this _is_ a crime scene you know. I don’t think grinning is quite appropriate, do you?”

Embarrassed at being caught, John tried to compose himself as he turned to Greg to apologize. However, the smile and twinkling eyes of the grey-haired man just made John's grin grow even wider. “You’re one to talk,” he said as he elbowed Greg lightly in the ribs.

“I’m just glad to finally see you out and about, John,” said Greg. “It’s been a long haul.”

“Yeah, it has,” said John. He opened his mouth to continue speaking when he was interrupted by Sherlock’s soft “Oh!” The Consulting Detective quickly stood, snapped off the latex gloves he was wearing and stuffed them in his pocket. “Lestrade, call Molly and tell her I’m on my way. I need to see the bodies of the first two victims.” Sherlock then sped down one of the pathways towards the road, presumably to hail a cab.

With a fond smile on his face, John watched his friend hurry off. Some things would never change. But it was of no matter; John was perfectly capable of getting himself home. He was just turning to say good-bye to Greg when Sherlock suddenly reappeared at his side.

“John, you head back to the flat; there’s some on-line research I need you do. Lestrade, see to it that someone gives John a lift home. Don’t forget to do your physio, John. I’ll see you at 6:30 and I’ll bring dinner with me. Lestrade, I’m leaving John in your care. Later!” he called as he raced back down the path towards the street and presumably the solution to the case.

John and Greg exchanged smiles. “Give me five minutes, and then I’ll give you a lift.”

“I’m perfectly capable of getting myself home, you know,” said John as he shifted his weight and prepared to set off after his friend.

“I know, but I’d rather like to avoid Sherlock’s wrath, if possible!” Gazing down the path where Sherlock had disappeared at a run, Lestrade turned back to his friend and continued, “You were right all along, John.”

“Thanks! Right about what?” asked the doctor.

“Sherlock. He’s proven himself to be a good man and an even better friend, hasn’t he?”

“Yeah; he has,” whispered John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: And so we come to the end of a story that I’ve been wanting to write for almost two years now. I often read stories where John is hurt and Sherlock is either (a) the most useless caregiver or (b) so focused on the medical side of things that he forgets the human side. I wanted to write a story where Sherlock shows his caring side and proves to everyone around him that he is a good friend to John. I hope I’ve succeeded. Finally, in case you were wondering, the title for this story comes from the song “You’ve Got a Friend” by James Taylor:
> 
> You just call out my name  
> And you know wherever I am  
> I'll come running to see you again  
> Winter, spring, summer or fall  
> All you've got to do is call  
> And I'll be there, yes I will.  
> You've got a friend


End file.
